"I'll be waiting," she purred, sliding from his grasp, standing upright in a stirring of cerise silk muslin that set off her pale skin and dark hair to perfection.

"Pleasant thought," Dermott murmured, lifting his glass to her. "I won't be late."

"She doesn't even see anyone else," a young noble complained after Kate walked away. "Deuced selfish of you, Bathurst, to keep her for yourself."

Dermott raised his palms in disclaimer. "Acquit me, Kilgore. I'm not concerned with exclusivity."

"You should tell her, then," the young man grumbled.

"I think my feelings on that subject are clear."

"Hear, hear, Kilgore," one of the men interposed. "Not a person in the ton don't know Dermott's not in the market for permanence. And Kate makes up her own mind whom she favors. Now, I've got a damned good hand here, so stop your grousing and deal us another card or two. Are you in or out, Bathurst?"

"In, of course." Dermott grinned. "At least for half an hour."

The small candlelit study was filled with the relatives of the man who had recently died upstairs. They sat on the few available chairs, and those not fortunate enough to have arrived early were left to stand. Like so many sharp-beaked scavengers and harpies, their beady gazes were riveted on the man seated behind a massive desk slowly reading from a document.

Only one person in the group of eight showed any evidence of sorrow. Isabella Leslie stood in a corner, softly sobbing, a handkerchief to her eyes. Her grandfather had been her entire life, the center of her world, the most kind and indulgent friend and parent.

And now he was gone and she was alone.

His illness had been long and lingering. She'd thought she'd had time to say her good-byes, to reconcile herself to life without him. But the immensity of her sadness was threatening to overwhelm her. She scarcely heard the lawyer's words as he read her grandfather's will. Until a stark and utter silence struck her senses and she looked up to see every eye in the room trained on her.